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Aunt Vee’s Three Rules
Eric, Five Years into his Lifetime Incarceration on this Planet of the Stoned Apes, Wins an Ally

As if it is not bad enough that human parents tend to severe stupidity, children are increasingly brought into bondage to our slave society through a pregnancy that is literally caused by drug addiction, a condition which emotionally and mentally retards the already stupid human parent beyond all hope of sensible child-rearing. Much sex is based on the drug trade and this is often unprotected sex. Typically black women perform oral sex on men—preferably white men—and then take that money to a black man for their drugs, White women, 30 years ago used to have sex with white men for drugs as a direct exchange—about 60% of white women in the 70s and 80s were drug whores. With the advent of crack and increasingly cheap and potent heroin, and the increasingly hazardous nature of getting drugs for white women from black men, white women have cut out the middle man and simply have sex with black men for drugs. Black men will rarely pay black women for sex, or even get them high, but will pay and/or supply dope to white women for sex. When this white woman cannot continue working or does not wish to, she need only have her dope dealer impregnate her. This is the classic mudshark, a drug-addicted, white, welfare mother of mixed bastards, living rent free on, often converting food stamp dollars to drug money at 50 cents on the dollar. This morning, in Dundalk, Maryland in Eastern Baltimore County, I interviewed Vee about her attempts to save the five year old son of her mudshark half-sister from the terrible fate of the postmodern child of this stoner nation.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was visiting a friend in Edgemere, the body of a 50-year old woman, whose son found her dead from an overdose, was carted out of the apartment above us. The lady friend and her daughter had been dreading the return of the daughter’s former boyfriend, who she had kicked out for smoking crack and eating prescription opiates. When the daughter told him I was spending the night he backed off. As I took the long bus ride down into the extreme southwest of Baltimore County, the bus was empty but for me and the driver for 4 miles, until it hit the drug rehab clinic by the courthouse and seven totally stoned methadone junkies piled on the bus, as impaired as any heroin addict. This is life in working class America. It is a drugged mass of human despair.


My father is disabled with a back injury. My stepmother is pill junkie who steals his pain pills and doesn’t work. My stepsister fires heroin and steals his pills to sell them to get money for dope,

I just found out my junkie sister is pregnant again—this time by a black drug dealer—a kid, I don’t even think the guy is eighteen. He has five babies by four baby’s mammas and Aleisha is about to be the fifth, unless she has another abortion. She ODs, then gets pregnant as soon as she gets out, then has an abortion, then ODs, then gets pregnant. Maybe the drug dealer is up to paying for another abortion—seems handy with the cash when it comes to having his babies killed.

So poor Eric is living in that house—the boyfriend ain’t allowed in. My father told her not to be fucking around with those niggers. I’m over there one time and he has this Leggo set that he never plays with. So I ask him if he wants to play and he says sure. You never see the kid playing. He’s always punished on the couch for backtalking his mother or her junkie mother—and who can blame him? Imagine having hose bitches running your life. In child development in high school—you know, where they train young girls to be single mothers [the local high schools now have daycare centers]—they told us that you punish the kid one minute per a year. This kid is five and she’s sitting him down for a half hour five times a day. That’s retarded.

We are playing Leggos and he’s never built anything, but is interested, so I’m showing him and I need more double-longs and I dump out the bucket. We’re having a good old time playing and those losers—don’t mean to call my dad a loser but he’s following the poor parenting ways of his second wife. He was good to us, didn’t raise us like a prisoner. They see the Leggos out and they all three start yelling at him. I could not even tell what any of them said. They are mad that he has the Leggos out and they tell him to clean it up. I stepped right up and told them that I dumped them out and that toys need to be played with and maybe they ought to get off their asses and play with Eric. I told my dad that he never treated us like that.

I decided right then to start spending time with him. Maybe when he’s older you can show him the boxing gym and he can learn how to fight—he does it all the time and might as well get good at it. I called him up and said, “Hey Eric, how would you like to go to the zoo or Urban Air. If it’s clear, we go to the zoo. If it’s raining, we go to Urban Air.”

He was all over that and they were like “He’ll be bad, he’ll get hit by a car, he’ll run away”—shit, he ought to run away!

I made arrangements—this kid has never been to the zoo! But it’s raining, so I call to tell him to get dressed for Urban Air—it’s a place with padded walls and floors and trampolines that you can run and jump and climb in. It’s eight in the morning and I call and my dad says that Alesha has taken him to the park—when that bitch is lucky to get out of bed before noon. I get over there and wait until she gets back and we head out around nine-thirty. I talked to Eric and he tells me that she didn’t take her and Tommy—who is two—to the park, but that they stood by the apartment complex gate and then got into a car with a black boy who drove them around—a drug deal.

Everybody was telling me this and that about how to handle him and how bad he was. When we got outside, we stood on the stairs and held hands and as we looked at the car I said, “Okay, now that we are away from those people, I have three rules”—and I’m not even a parent. These idiots don’t even have parenting rules.

“Rule number one is you always hold my hand when going to and from the car and in parking lots.”

“Rule number two is that I must be able to see you at all times. I don’t need anybody snatching your cute butt up. If you want to move on, you tell me and we move on.”

“Rule number three is, have fun!”

That did it, he ate the day up. We both had a great time and I’ll make it a regular thing. I know these people done fucked him up so bad that’s he’ll probably always have problems. You know he’s going to have huge resentment issues with authority figures after having no father, a bamboozled granddad and two junkie bitches running his life. But maybe I can keep him out of jail a little longer than otherwise.

Look at these photos, Mister Jim, and tell me this kid didn’t have a great day!

And it was so, I saw 12 images of a smiling, blonde boy actively attacking a warehouse-size play area, empty of all but the woman with the camera phone. I reflected that it was a shame that our society is designed to destroy this kid and turn him into a transgender drug addict or prison inmate and agreed to coach him—or just play with him.

The Mind of Mescaline Franklin

The Awakening of a Paleface Ethnocist

Add Comment
Sam J.May 9, 2017 12:50 AM UTC

That's so sad.